


A Tale of Yearning

by SometimesRaven



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Dream Sex, Embarrassment, Feelings Realization, Jealousy, Masturbation, Multi, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Wet Dream, Wrong Name in Bed, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SometimesRaven/pseuds/SometimesRaven
Summary: Five times Jaskier thought of Geralt (and one time it was Yennefer)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Kudos: 8





	1. The First Time

He was awake, squinting in the evening sun with heavy lids just open enough to watch as Geralt dressed for sleep -- or rather, _undressed_. 

Rays of red-gold light caught the Witcher's skin in shimmering focus, illuminating every curve and ripple of muscle beneath the undershirt he so carelessly tossed aside, and Jaskier couldn't help but trace every scar like he followed constellations in the sky. Even so splattered with undisclosed monster blood the man was a meal to behold and Jaskier was _starving_ ; drinking in the sight of him as he stripped down to nothing and headed to the river to bathe.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen the Witcher garmentless. He'd done more than _see_ him: he'd been the one to clean and caress near enough every inch of him so casually, so _innocently_. Nonetheless it still took him off-guard just how magnificent a specimen Geralt was, and as he descended into the cool waters Jaskier felt his mind descend with him. Water lapped at rippling muscles as battle-worn hands scrubbed at the mess of whatever unfortunate creature had crossed him this time, the movements so careless and habitual compared to the way he danced and span so skillfully in battle.

Gods, but the way he moved... There was something about watching a man kill with such grace and strength that had him weak. What more could that body do? Jaskier closed his eyes completely as his imagination took hold. He could feel Geralt's hands upon him, calloused fingers tracing patterns along his every sensitive dip and curve like his Witcher senses could see them clear as day. His hand was strong and firm as it rested at the bard's shoulder, holding him still so effortlessly. How much effort would it take to break him entirely?

Geralt's touches dipped lower, tracing the outline of his straining cock and Jaskier breathed a sharp gasp, eyes opening to meet piercing yellow -- how long had Geralt actually been there? It didn't matter. He could feel every bump and callous and scar on the Witchers fingertips as they worked him so skillfully, so softly; such a contrast to the man's usual apathetic boorishness. 

The White Wolf growled a deep command and Jaskier shivered, the rumble of his voice sending shockwaves through his body-

And then he was awake. Geralt was asleep nearby and Jaskier was uncomfortably sticky. _Fuck_. Why did he have to be hopelessly attracted to every brute of a man that passed his gaze?

Groaning softly, he took himself to bathe and try to get the feeling of Geralt's hands out of his mind. It wasn't unusual for his dreams to wander so, but for Geralt to be their subject? Hopefully his thoughts would wander to the next attractive body soon enough.


	2. The Tavern Girl

His thoughts didn't move on, and if the first time they wandered to Geralt was embarrassing, this was-.. mortifying.

Geralt was off doing whatever it was Geralt did. Slaying some monster or showing mercy to some poor starving creature, probably. It didn't matter to Jaskier -- what mattered right now was the tavern girl he was paying for. 

It wasn't as if she were a dull looking thing; no, quite the opposite, and ever so talented with her mouth. The bard keened as she tended to him, hot warmth engulfing his cock and stroking with devastating accuracy. His eyes squeezed shut as her tongue flicked and swirled, and then-.. then his mind began to wander. 

Geralt would have no trouble with this, would he? He'd take Jaskier whole, tend to him with a tenderness so unlike him on the surface but Jaskier knew it was there. How tender _could_ the White Wolf be, he wondered? He'd seen Geralt's heart soften so many times -- surely that softness translated. He thought of the Witcher laying him down, making sure he was comfortable; tending to his every need and whim, keeping him safe and comfortable with a sarcastic comment or two. He would be attentive and tender, find his pulse; nip a little mark of ownership there and soothe it just as quickly before moving down, down... Was his tongue as dexterous as it was sharp, he wondered? His hands would be rough against the bard's tender skin and Jaskier had seen how precisely his fingers worked when he cast that Witcher magic of his-- Gods, what else could those fingers do? 

The girl on his cock hummed a gentle moan as his hips bucked at the thought, and Jaskier whined-- the rumble of a groan Geralt would give would be torturous, he'd pick up the pace just as she was and the bard wouldn't be able to help himself--

_"Fuck, Geralt-!"_

...Jaskier fell still as he came down, stiff with embarrassment and fuzzy with pleasure all at once. The tavern girl sat up with a smile, swiping a hand over her mouth, and fixed him with an inquisitive green-eyed stare. "Geralt? As in, Geralt of Rivia? That Witcher you sing about?"

Well. Fuck.


	3. The Desire

He shouldn't be doing this. Listening to your very best friend in the whole wide world fucking in the next room was _not_ a good enough reason for him to be rubbing one out himself, yet here he was.

Jaskier _tried._ He really did try to ignore the sounds of moaning and pounding and dispassionate grunting that made it sound more like Geralt was working through some issues than having sex with a beautiful (if hired) woman. Whatever it sounded like, it was making him uncomfortable. And not uncomfortable in a my-friend-is-having-sex-and-i-can-hear-it way either, more like a my-friend-is-having-sex-and-it's-making-me-hard kind of way.

Either way, he _tried._ Lay tossing and turning trying desperately to block out the sounds and just go to sleep but no matter how many pillows he piled on top of his face there were still the thuds and vibrations in the creaking wood of the tavern sending his imagination wild and by the time he gave up his cock was throbbing so painfully it was showing _restraint_ to be able to merely offer it a squeeze.

It was hopeless. As if the thoughts of Geralt that plagued him weren't enough of a torment, now he'd be stuck with the sound of him in his mind every night for the rest of his life, probably. His hand was moving before he could stop himself, stroking lazy patterns along his shaft despite every impulse needing him to go faster, to push himself over the edge before he could entirely fall apart with wanting.   
But no. He wanted to take his time; _needed_ to match Geralt pace for pace or... at least as close as he could get given the man's Witcher-y stamina. He needed to be there with him by the end, feel some kind of connection-- _fuck..._ The girl he was with must have done something right because the growl that came from Geralt's throat felt like a sweet-hot blade to his gut, his hips bucking roughly into his hand even as he attempted to still himself and listen. When he first called him the White Wolf, Jaskier had no idea how true that could be -- the sounds coming from the other room were animalistic; positively _feral,_ and it was maddening. To be torn apart inside and out by that wolf; to be built back up piece by piece afterwards... It was a dream he wished he could live.

Now wasn't the time to be thinking about anything more than lust. Now wasn't the time to think of anything more than his cock in his hand and the shockwaves in his spine. But even as he shed the last light of control, thrusting earnestly into his own hand with a choked whimper, he couldn't keep the wild-yet-gentle look in Geralt's eyes out of his mind. He wanted to see it every day; to know he was safe and protected, to know Geralt would always take care of his bard. 

He came with a broken cry that Geralt probably _definitely_ heard, rolling himself tight in his sheets as he twitched and curled into himself, head fuzzing in the slow comedown. In his mind's eye, Geralt would hold him as he settled. Mutter some quiet praise before falling asleep. 

And Jaskier would be left with the unsettling realisation that it was probably time to admit to himself the truth he'd been avoiding.

He was in love with the White Wolf.


	4. The Last Wish

As it turns out, the realisation that you're in love with your best friend combined with the whole almost dying thing can _really_ do a number on one's quality of sleep.

After the mess with the djinn and the witch, Geralt had taken them both to find the nearest inn -- a mercy Jaskier was more than glad for right now. Every slightly irregular breath and tickle had him pale and trembling, ready for his throat to close once more; ready for the blinding pain and the certainty of death to return to him. It was hell; it was _worse_ than hell, it was _annoying._ Jaskier was exhausted and nothing could get him to sleep when every time he closed his eyes his throat joined them. 

What he needed was a distraction. He couldn't sing, like he usually would -- write some angsting ballad to clear his mind. Even if it wouldn't wake the entire inn to his sleeplessness, he wasn't sure he could stand to sing right now. His throat had completely healed and singing was as easy as breathing, but-.. given the state of his breathing tonight, he wasn't sure he'd be up to par.

What, then? His mind drifted over the events of the day, hoping to draw some inspiration from the events of this latest adventure or at least the ones that didn't involve him almost dying. 

There was... _that_ moment. In fact _that_ moment was possibly the only good to come out of the day. Seeing Geralt like that-- fuck. The way his hair fell and framed his face, lips parted in pleasure... Jaskier groaned softly, palming at his hardening cock as he pictured the way Geralt's hips rolled; the arch of his back as his eyes squeezed closed, all that strict Witcher-y control swept away. What he would give to be the one to take it from him: to see his guard melt away in sheer, unabashed ecstasy. The witch -- _Yennefer --_ seemed to so effortlessly strip that guard away and his hand stilled as a pang of jealousy squeezed at his chest.  
How _dare_ she? How dare she walk into their lives and claim Geralt's heart so easily? When Jaskier gave him everything he could, bore his soul in the hopes he'd see just the smallest piece of Geralt's. And _she--_ she took his chance. Took it all, and all she had to so was save--

_"She saved your life, Jaskier, I can't let her die."_

Oh, but he was a fool. To think one woman meant he stood no chance at all with Geralt -- surely that he was so willing to risk himself to save Yennefer spoke more of his care for Jaskier than her? And that meant the Witcher's vulnerability... was in part thanks to him. And he still had a chance to see that vulnerability for himself, to truly pull at the solid rock he encased himself with and witness the true White Wolf for who he was.

How would that look for him, he wondered, his hand continuing its lazy pace. An obscene whimper broke past Jaskier's throat as he remembered the way Geralt's hand had rested at the small of the witch's back, forcing her closer to him as he pounded into her -- he'd wondered night after night what kind of man Geralt was in bed and now he had a template for that line of questioning his thoughts were all the more vivid. To feel him inside and out, painfully full and so roughly taken yet so safe in his arms, so certain he'd never allow real harm to come to his bard. _His_ bard. Jaskier keened, hips leaving the bed as he spilled hot and heavy to thoughts of warm, protective hands and wild, loving eyes.

He would _truly_ be Geralt's one day. He just needed to have patience, that was all.

Jaskier smiled as his thoughts faded clear and his consciousness finally slipped. He had all the patience in the world for Geralt of Rivia.


End file.
